


Two Men Hug Through The Ages

by MarleyMortis



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: All The Various Ways In Which Two Men Can Hug, Attempted Suicide, Character is under the influence of a telepath, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hugging, Non-Consensual Medical Practices, Not Infinity War compliant, Not Published In Chronological Order, Period-Typical Homophobia, Police Raids On LGBT+ Hangouts, Possible Spoilers For Infinity War?, Rating subject to change, STI, Slow Burn, Syphilis, The Boys Get Their Hug, Unsafe Sex, sorta - Freeform, touch starved, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-20 01:33:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14250210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarleyMortis/pseuds/MarleyMortis
Summary: A series of one-shots depicting all the scenarios in which two touch-starved people can hug.





	1. The Infinity War Hug

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should be working on an update for my fic in progress, but this was quick to bang out. Anyone else tired of Marvel not allowing Steve and Bucky to hug? Well, here is my contribution to the hug-fest. This will be a series of one-shots not written in chronological order depicting various scenarios in which our boys get to show their affection through cuddling. Because people should get to cuddle, gosh darn it!

When Bucky chose to enter cryostasis following the events of Civil War, Steve wasn't sure he'd ever see his best friend again. At least not outside the stasis chamber that reminded him far too much of a snow globe. Sometimes he wondered if he tipped the pod upside down, would he watch a fall of snow dance across frozen skin.

Of course, Bucky and his stint in cryo-freeze went down swimmingly with Sam, who coined an unending list of jokes and could often be heard bellowing “let the storm rage on; the cold never bothered me anyway” every time he passed anywhere near the medical ward. Sometimes Steve wanted to punch Sam in his smug face. Other times, Sam was the only reason he smiled these days.

Then more aliens calling themselves the Black Order arrived as the vanguard to some giant purple guy named Thanos. Thanos had a complex that had something to do with impressing Death by killing off trillions of life forms as an ode to his love.

Thanos wasn't that frightening on his own. Combine him with the Infinity Stones, and the results became something beyond what the human imagination could conceive. He was the terrifying approximation of a jilted lover with the kind of power that defied everything they'd fought before. Killing him seemed impossible.

Steve had grown up doing the impossible.

But catching Thanos' hand mid-air with his bare hands and using grit, determination, and pure stubbornness to counter a super-powered alien hadn't been his best decision. Nursing a shoulder that screamed with torn muscles and ligaments, he took a flight back to Birnin Zana, the golden city of Wakanda, alongside Nat and Sam.

The last thing he expected to see upon stepping off the air cruiser was a head of sable hair worn past broad shoulders. Shoulders that sat squarely on a solid body. Bucky's face was calm. He looked healthier than Steve had seen him since before their war.

Stepping down, he moved toward his best friend only to hesitate at the last moment, unsure how his presence would be received. After all, they barely knew each other anymore. They couldn't expect for their edges to fit like puzzle pieces.

“You look good,” Steve said, voice soft and uncertain.

Bucky smiled, and it was like a punch to the gut. He hadn't smiled like that since before their war either, his emotions on clear display, a lightness in his expression, like the cares of the past seventy-plus years had been lifted from his shoulders.

Steve felt tears sting his eyes.

He spanned the distance between them, patting Bucky's shoulder, his own injured arm held protectively against his stomach, and asked, “How you been, Buck?”

“Not bad.” Beat. “For the end of the world.”

Steve's heart squeezed, but he didn't step forward for a hug; he couldn't, not when he was so unsure of where they stood with each other. So much had changed between them, especially for Bucky. In ways, Steve felt like he'd been left behind, the Colossus of Rhodes standing guard over his island city. He was a stoic relic compared to the forward momentum of Bucky's recovery.

Bucky, always the braver between them as far as he was concerned, closed the gap. Then, they were hugging. He sank into the embrace, allowed himself to melt into the warm welcome, and for the first time since waking up to the modern world, Steve felt whole again.

He pressed his face into Bucky's shoulder regardless of their audience and swallowed down the tears threatening to escape, but when Bucky squeezed a little too hard, he flinched.

Easing the embrace, Buck pulled back to touch Steve's arm. “What's this?”

“Just some shoulder damage from a recent battle. Nothing to worry about.”

“Which is Steve speak for 'my arm's about to fall off.' Punk.”

Responding was instinct. “Jerk.”

“Let's get you to the infirmary.”

One of Buck's broad palms against his back, he turned and allowed himself to be guided into the palace. A rich baritone singing, “Let it go, let it go, and I'll rise to break the dawn. Let it go, let it go. That perfect girl is gone,” followed them into the structure.

“Do you have any idea what Bird-man's going on about?”

Steve responded, “Not a damn clue.”


	2. The Battle Hug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A life and death battle against the Black Order ends in unexpected romance.

Chaos sparked all around them. Proxima Midnight, one of Thanos' Black Order, came at him with a relentless series of trusts from her spear. He stepped back. She countered the swing of his arm, catching it with the shaft of her weapon. Servos worked overtime in an effort to overpower her, but her strength seemed absolute.

“Buck, location,” came Steve's voice crackling through their comms.

He rattled off his location over the din of combat. The Black Order seemed to be everywhere at once. Steve's unit was losing ground. Nat had already taken a bad hit from Corvus Glaive and was being med-evaced to a safer location by Hawkeye.

Smoke wafted up from the cracks in the plating on his new arm. Teeth gritted, he swung himself inward hard enough to knock Proxima Midnight off balance. Just long enough to escape the crushing impact of her weapon.

He rolled to his knees, one hand already on the gun belted to his thigh. Too late. She rolled to her feet like water over rocks. Her spear descended. He broke left. The spear point drove into the cement a breath away from his head. His heart kicked the inner wall of his chest.

Rescue came in the form of Red Wing. The bot blasted Proxima Midnight with a jolt of electricity that had her body arching like a rubber band stretched to capacity.

It bought him enough time to regain his feet, at which point, he leaped up onto the fire escape to put much needed distance between them. From that vantage, he fired a round that buried in her shoulder. Satisfaction was a bubble of delight swelling in his chest.

She shook off the hit, and without looking, hurled a smaller knife from her belt. It was a razor slicing the air and burying into Red Wing, who chirped and collided with the concrete. The bot attempted to rise. It made it a foot off the ground before wheeling into the flames of an exploded car.

“Red Wing is down,” he said over the comms.

“Fucking Hell, not my baby,” responded Sam.

“Everyone fall back to the precinct. That's our last line of defense. They get to Vision, and this is over with before we can even get start--” Steve's voice cut off.

“Steve, repeat.” He pressed his finger against the comm in his ear. “Repeat orders.”

Static cracked over the comms, and he heard the sound of Steve shouting along with the low-level resonant hum of Supergiant. His heart dropped into his boots.

“Bucky,” Steve said, voice calm. “I'm going to kill myself. I'm going to put this gun in my mouth and pull the trigger. I'll paint the concrete behind me.”

“You let him go, you fucking coward!” he shouted in the hopes Supergiant could hear him through the comms. She was a psychic parasite, a possessor who forced people to her will.

The distraction left him reeling when Prixma Midnight closed the distance on him. Her spear point screeched along the shoulder of his prosthetic. It was an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, Vibranium against the alien composite that made up her weapon, and it left him aching all the way to his core. But that wasn't what mattered at the moment.

He needed to get to Steve.

“Stevie, you listen to me. You can fight her.”

He retreated up the stairs.

“You fight her, okay?”

“I can't,” came Steve's voice, sounding wretched through clenched teeth.

Another flight of stairs. He turned and fired another bullet into his assailant.

“Yes you fucking can. You listen to me, punk. You're the strongest guy I know, and I need you to do this for me. Don't you fucking let her win. Don't you let her take us away from each other again.”

He topped the roof, Proxima Midnight's long-legged stride close behind him. Then there was no more room. Nothing but the edge of a rooftop and the long drop to the street below. It wouldn't kill him. The train. The cliff. They had proven his durability when it came to heights, but--

A gunshot barked.

The noise made him jerk. It was like a physical blow.

“Steve.”

Silence.

“Stevie.”

She was there, just across the rooftop from him, her shape menacing. The point of her spear looked deadly as she swirled the shaft this way and that in a display of dexterity.

A sob escaped. He pressed a metal hand over his mouth to hold it in. Then came the rage because there was no time for grief. There was only time for vengeance, to fight and then to die.

He screamed threw himself in her direction, catching the downward arch of her spear with his metal hand. The servos screamed again. They wailed like ghosts rattling the walls of an old house. He dug his boots into the grit on the rooftop and pushed. She slid backward.

Then, a hair's breadth away from his arm maxing out, he wheeled himself inside her defenses, pressed the barrel of his gun against the underside her jaw and pulled the trigger. The shot kicked her head back at an unnatural angle. He shoved her, sending her tumbling off the side of the roof where she crushed the car beneath her with her impact.

“Steve, answer me.”

Silence.

*

The few blocks surrounding the precinct where they'd tried to protect Vision had been reduced to little more than rubble, rubble Bucky picked his way over with an empty heart. He needed to see Steve whatever the outcome. Needed to hold his body one last time.

A space ship hovered just off the ground nearby, and he quietly noted the presence of Starlord and Gamora. Mantis, her antennae drooping, stood over a body, Drax beside her holding a gun.

It wasn't Steve's body.

Another sob, this one more like relief than anything else, scratched its way up his throat when he looked up to find Steve stepping over the rubble partially blocking the door into the precinct. His comm unit hanged uselessly over his shoulder.

“Fuck. You bastard!”

He took off running, feet stumbling over bits of rubble so that he was forced to brace himself against a section of building to keep from wiping out. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but getting to Steve.

“I thought you were dead!”

Next thing he knew, he was in Steve's arms, Steve who caught him mid leap and reeled him in. It felt like coming home, like Coney Island, like sharing hot dogs, like every good thing from before their lives had become a twisted mess of war and bloodshed. He pressed himself closer. If there were a way for him to crawl inside Steve's arms, he would have.

“Hey. Hey, it's okay. I'm okay. Mantis and Drax got here in time.” A broad palm tangled in Bucky's hair to hold him close. “Shh. We're okay.”

“No, we're not okay,” he shouted, his face a mess of tears and snot. “I love you, you punk. I love you, and I thought you'd died.”

For the next few seconds, time seemed to stand still because he hadn't meant to admit that.

“You love me?”

In for a penny; in for a pound as the saying went. He tangled both fists in the straps where Steve's shield, having been returned to him after T'Challa's infamous “get this man a shield” speech on international television, was anchored and hauled them together to kiss the shock off Steve's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief threat of suicide while character is under the influence of a telepath.


	3. The Birthday Hug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Bucky thinks crying's for babies and Steve shows him the value of having a good punch.

**September 19, 1925**

Steve was on his way home from school when he heard someone crying. Now, there were some sorts of people who could walk away. Even adults. Adults were often times the cruelest sort of humans.

He was not that sort of person, though, so when he zeroed in on the tears, he followed them to a dirty alleyway between Mr. O'Brian's tailoring and the old general store where he sometimes swept up for pieces of penny candy. It was important he stay out of Mr. Ryan's sight until Ma could afford to pay the bill for their groceries from last week.

Rounding a pile of trash bags waiting to be disposed of, he found a boy about his age with dark curls, wide blue eyes, and a dimple in his chin. He crouched, hugging arms around his knees.

“Why ya cryin'?” he asked.

“'M not. Cryin's for babies,” said the other boy while frantically wiping snot and tears from his face with a threadbare cuff.

“I cry sometimes, too, and I ain't no baby.”

The boy huffed. “I was gonna buy my ma some perfume for her birthday. Worked real hard and saved up all my pennies from fixing those machines for Mr. Larkin down at the paper mill.”

Steve knew just which place the boy was talking about. Mr. Larkin had tried recruiting him, too, said he was real small and could climb inside the machines much easier than older boys, but ma had put a stop to that right quick. She'd huffed up a storm prattling on about Mr. Larkin taking advantage of young boys and getting 'em hurt 'fore sending 'em home to their families.

“D'you lose the money?”

“Nah, that fat bully Michael stole it. Now I can't buy my ma no perfume, and she's gonna have a terrible birthday, and it's all my fault for not standing up to that stupid Michael.”

He scrambled for a solution because that's what Steve did. Someone needed help; he found a way to help them. The answer, when it came to him, was surprisingly simple.

“Come on.”

“Whatcha gonna do?”

Steve curled his thin fingers around the other boy's wrist to tug him along. “We're gonna get your ma some perfume for her birthday.”

The kid, Bucky he introduced himself, dug his heels in. “We ain't gonna steal it, are we?”

Affronted, Steve said, “'Course not! My knees can't take no more Hail Marys this month. Father Patrick made me say six of 'em for telling Sister Mary Catherine that God wouldn't care if Shannon's pa loved that nice Mr. Cohen from the butcher.”

Bucky wiped his eyes again and snorted back the snot in his nose. “What're we gonna do, then?”

“You'll see.”

Steve, barely taller than the fruit stand outside Mr. Ryan's general store, ducked out of view when the ornery old skin flint walked toward the glass window of his store front. Once the coast was clear, he took off down the sidewalk, still clinging to Bucky's hand, and ducked around the corner to the tenement housing where his ma and he lived. 

A bunch of kids in their undershirts were playing ball outside when they arrived. Steve ignored them despite one of the older boys, a redhead who had to be twice as old as Bucky and Steve, shouting his name and suggesting he stilled owed Steve a whooping.

Steve, instead, climbed the fire escape and lifted the window of their fourth floor apartment. They had one of the decent tenements, the kind that had shared bathroom facilities on every floor and windows that opened to allow fresh air and sunshine inside.

After scrambling inside and letting Bucky follow him, he closed and locked the window again. The place was two rooms, a sitting area and kitchen and a single bedroom that Ma and him shared. He went into the bedroom and pulled a wood crate from beneath the bed. Bottles rattled inside.

“Ma likes to make perfume from flowers. Sometimes she sells 'em outside the park where the rich people walk their dogs.” He removed a bottle and offered it to Bucky. “These ones smell like phlox.”

“But I ain't got no money,” Bucky said.

“Well, I reckon Ma wouldn't mind so much 'cause she says we're always supposed to be kind and generous. So you give that to your ma for her birthday, and the good Lord'll be real happy that you're being a good son, a generous person, and doing a kindness.”

Bucky snuffled back the remainder of the snot and looked between Steve and the bottle of perfume clutched in his hands. He paused only a moment before launching himself across the distance separating them so he could hug Steve.

Now, Steve wasn't used to being hugged. Sure, his ma hugged him lots. Sometimes Grandma Burke hugged him when he helped her up the stairs with her groceries, but kids his age didn't much like Steve. He was either too small to play with them or too quick to tell 'em when they were doing wrong.

So having Bucky hug him came as something of a shock. The shock quickly wore off, and he wrapped both arms around Bucky to hold him close. Because hugs were good things. They made people feel special like he felt when his ma hugged him.

“Thanks, Stevie,” Bucky said when he pulled back, using the frayed cuffs of his shirt sleeves to wipe any lingering snot off his nose.

“Now, we better walk back to your place together so the kids outside don't go getting now ideas about roughing you up for being seen with me.”

“Shouldn't I be the one protectin' you?” asked Bucky. “'Cause I'm lots bigger.”

“But do you know how to throw a punch?”

“Don't think I've ever thrown one before, so I don't rightly know.”

*

They met up against the following week after school let out. Bucky was one grade higher than Steve, so they didn't get to see each other much at school despite going to the same one. After meeting up, Steve guided Bucky through the loose panel of a fence and into an empty stockyard. The slaughterhouse that used to operate there had shut down a couple months ago 'cause the owner lost everything when the Stock Exchange crashed. He had to sell the place for pennies to pay off debts.

So no on was around to bother them when Steve balled up his fists and swung at Bucky, who was taken by surprise and didn't step out of the way fast enough to avoid getting clobbered in the chin. Eyes wide, he threw his hands up to block another blow with his forearms.

“See, ya gotta be moving all the time,” instructed Steve. “Don't matter none if ya can't hit as hard if they can't catch up to ya to hit ya back.”

Bucky tried throwing a punch at Steve, but Steve was like a cat, light on his feet and already well-versed in the art of dodging a punch or an awkward back-hand. S'what happened when your uncle was a drunk and hated when his nephew got underfoot. You learned to stay light on your feet.

By the time Bucky could throw a passable punch and figured out how to move his big ol' gangly feet fast enough to make a difference, the sun sank toward the horizon. Grinning, gums red with blood, he threw an arm over Steve's shoulder.

“You're real swell for teaching me, Stevie.”

“I figure someone's gotta, or you're gonna get your brains knocked out.”


	4. The Jailhouse Hug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worrying about Steve Rogers gives Bucky gray hairs.

**April 1939**

The precinct was crammed full when Bucky, frantic, rushed inside. Some people wept. Some were obviously there to bail out friends or loved ones (like he was). Others had just made bail and were in the process of collecting their things and leaving. There were men and women in their best suits and drag queens wearing their flashy gowns, make up, and wigs.

Steve wasn't among those in the lobby, and that worried the Hell outta him. Guy like Steve, mouthy and with quick fists that got him into trouble too often, being held in lock up was a recipe for disaster, so he fought his way through the crowd to the front desk.

“What d'ya want?” demanded the gruff-faced cop at the desk.

“I'm here to bail out Steve Rogers.”

“Description?”

“Small, fighty. He's got blond hair and blue eyes. Looks like a stiff breeze could blow him away.”

The officer's expression tightened. “Oh. Him.”

And if that wasn't the perfect description of Steve Rogers, Bucky would eat his hat. He did not want to eat his hat. It needed a good wash and had seen better days, but he'd do it if someone could describe Stevie in better a better way than the absolute dread in the officer's voice.

“You got the bail money?”

“Yes, sir.” He dug through this pants pocket and withdrew what he'd taken from their rent stash. They'd both need to work overtime to make up the money in time for rent. It was another one of those things, like eating his hat, that he didn't want to do but would in the name of Steve Rogers.

Once the transaction was complete, the officer sent someone back to retrieve Steve from lock-up. Bucky didn't get a good look at him until they were both standing outside under the harsh street lights. He tucked a finger under Steve's chin and turned his face this way and that.

“Ah, Hell, Stevie. Sometimes I think you like getting punched.”

“They had it coming,” Steve asserted. “We wasn't doing nothing wrong. Wasn't our fault the law decided to raid us tonight.”

Bucky didn't need to ask who “us” was. “Us” entailed the numerous queens, fairies, and hookers Steve hanged out with down at the Banana Lounge, one of Brooklyn Heights' numerous queer hangouts. Steve had said something about a drag ball going on that night before he'd left.

“Don't mean you gotta pick a fight with the police, pal.” He admonished. “They're just doing their jobs. Hell, Officer Monroe'd rather leave you guys and gals alone, but he'd get fired if he did.”

“That's why I didn't punch Officer Monroe,” Steve retorted.

It startled a bark of laughter from him, and he clenched a hand on Steve's shoulder. It didn't matter to him what Stevie did with whatever was between his legs. Didn't change him. Didn't make him any different than that kid who'd found him crying in the alley and had given him a bottle of perfume.

A couple of dock workers on their way home from their shift snarled at them. Called them a couple of sinners who God would punish when they stood before Him at Judgment Day. Steve tensed, and Bucky refused to relinquish his hold on his shoulder. It was the only way to prevent Steve from starting something right in front of the precinct.

Steve restrained himself to yelling, “You'd think God'd be more worried about you getting drunk and beating on your wife and kids than what a couple of queers did with their bodies!”

The men screeched to a halt.

Groaning, Bucky dragged him into the alley so they could cut across to Cranberry Street and hopefully avoid another showdown at the Steve Rogers Corral.

Only when he'd put enough distance between them and the possible fight did he feel safe enough to push Steve up against the wall. “What's your problem, pal?”

Mulishness tightened Steve's lips. “You know what my problem is.”

And yeah, Bucky knew. His best pal had always been a fighter. Growing up the way he had in the place he'd lived with his body? Constantly being bullied? It'd be enough to turn anybody into a lit fuse, but things had gotten worse after Sarah's death. Sarah had been Steve's world.

“Let me go before I punch you in that fat jaw o' yours,” Steve snapped.

“Only if you promise me you're not gonna run back and fight those pricks.”

“I ain't promising you nothing, Bucky Barnes. Last time I did that, I wound up having to say about a million Hail Marys when Father Patrick found out we was bootleggin' for Mr. Pryor.”

A rough breath escaped. He stepped back and raked fingers through his dark hair. “I found a gray hair yesterday. A gray hair. I'm twenty-two and finding gray hairs 'cause o' you, Rogers.”

“Yeah, well. Feeling's mutual, pal.”

Despite the tension between them, Bucky threw an arm across Steve's shoulders, and they headed home. Truth was that it didn't matter how many gray hairs Steve gave him. They were each other's better parts. Wasn't no future for Bucky Barnes without Steve Rogers. Wasn't no future for Steve Rogers without Bucky Barnes.

They made it home and stepped into their small apartment filled with hand-me-down furniture. The scarred kitchen table looked at home beside Sarah Rogers' chipped china. She'd carried it all the way across the ocean when her and Steve's dad immigrated to America.

“Does it bug you?” asked Steve when they'd gotten settled in their shared bedroom in their pajamas.

“What you talking about?”

“Me being queer. Does it make you feel weird when people say shit like that when they see us together just 'cause they know I'm queer?”

“Nah, pal. Don't bug me none.”

Then, in a smaller, more vulnerable voice than Bucky was used to, Steve asked, “Can I have a hug?”

Bucky hugged him without a second's hesitation.


	5. The Car Hug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The law hits too close to home for Steve and Bucky, who visit a friend at an institute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The subject matter in this chapter is heavy and involves period-typical homophobia, non-consensual medical practices, and grossly unfair laws regarding people in the LGBTQIA community. If this subject will upset you, please skip this chapter.

_August 1940_

Bucky worked doing bookkeeping at a shipping company that made its home on the docks. Steve had steady work for the first time in over a year doing art for an advertising agency in Manhattan. The commute was murder, but he was happy. They were both genuinely happy for the first time since Steve's ma had passed.

Between the two of them, they had enough money to buy a little car they both spent weekends fixing up in a garage owned by one of their buddies, a guy named Arnie, who lived just a few streets over. Everyone in the neighborhood knew Arnie was gay, but this was Brooklyn Heights. Fellas couldn't walk hand in hand with other fellas nor gals with other gals out in the open, but people knew about these relationships and never bothered reporting it to the police.

In the end, it wasn't even Arnie who got busted during a raid at the St. George Hotel. It was another of their friends, Davie, who was a well-known good time guy down at the docks. Always dressed up as a sailor and had a good time with the Navy boys coming and going from the docks.

Davie was finally busted in the act. That was something the local police couldn't overlook. When they found you with a dick up your ass, it was hard to plead innocent, so the neighborhood was saddened by Davie being carted off to the clink. Everyone turned up for his trial. Crowds from Brooklyn Heights and surrounding communities gathered outside the courthouse in his support.

Hell, Bucky even served as a character witness. Steve tried to. Mr. Brightman, Davie's public defender, refused to put Steve on the stand, citing Steve's inclination to start spouting the filthiest of insults at people he thought weren't justified in their actions. And boy did he believe the laws against sodomy, or “crimes against nature” as they liked to call them, were unjustified.

So yeah, it was probably a good decision not to let him on the stand on Davie's behalf. Things would have ended with him in jail for contempt of court. Probably would have slapped him with some public obscenity charges, too. Hell, Bucky had to drag him from the courtroom the one time he attended the public proceedings.

When the case ended, the Davie was found guilty of sodomy. Rather than prison time—Davie was a little guy a lot like Steve, dainty and shy—the judge sentenced Davie to four years in a lunatic asylum, which was bad enough as far as Steve was concerned.

One Saturday, Buck and him got up early and drove up to Letchworth Village in Rockland County. It was quite the drive, so they planned on making a day of it and wound up stopping off at the half-way point for lunch in a quaint, roadside diner. 

They sat across from each other and had sandwiches and a milkshake while talking about the little things in life. How was the weather? What were they doing at their jobs? When they should make a trip out to Indiana to visit Bucky's folks? They'd moved back to their hometown recently, and Buck missed them something awful, especially his youngest sister, Rebecca.

Neither of them dared bring up the thing they both feared, the thing that had been brought home—too close to home, claimed Bucky—after Davie's arrest. It coulda been Steve in that courtroom. He'd taken dates to the St. George Hotel before. Only the sheer grace of God had kept him from being caught and brought up on more serious charges than being caught in a queer bar.

It was afternoon by the time they arrived at Letchworth Village. They found a parking space and entered into the visitor entrance where a receptionist guided them to a room set aside for visitors. Another thirty minutes passed before Davie actually appeared, guided by an orderly and looking downtrodden. The color in his cheeks was gone. The bright smile that had always been infectious had dimmed. A ghost of the man he'd once been haunted his body.

Appalled, Steve shot up and helped Davie into a chair between them. He made a wounded noise in the back of his throat and stroked a hand down his back.

“What did they do to you?” 

“L-lo-l-lo-lo--” Davie cleared his throat. A tear escaped and slid down his cheek to cling to his top lip. “Lo-lob-lobotomy,” he finally got out.

“What the Hell is a lobotomy?” demanded Bucky.

“Hey, hey. Shh.” Steve fished a hankie from his pocket and wiped away the tears that continued cascading down Davie's face. He had kissed that face. He'd watched that face contort with pleasure. He'd seen it grin with delight and grimace with the pain of losing his older brother. All of it was gone.

“I'm going to get some answers,” Bucky said and got up to leave.

His disappearance caused Davie to make a terrible whimpering noise, so Steve held him tighter.

Steve decided to forge ahead. There was no point making Davie uncomfortable by dwelling on his circumstances; rather, he wanted to do something to cheer him up. He pulled a few letters from his back pocket and spread them on the table.

“Everybody back home misses you, you know. Loads of people been writing you letters. We're gonna bring more each time we come up to visit. 'Cause right now, we got the only car. Next time, we're gonna bring Clarice with us, okay? You remember Clarice?”

Davie nodded. His lip wobbled, and a line of drool dripped from the corner of his mouth.

Steve was quick to wipe it away before beginning with the first letter. “This one's from Colin. He says he's doing all right. Got himself a new job bouncing at one of the bars. Pays abysmal, but it's enough to put food on the table and keep a roof over his head.”

One after another, he quietly read what Davie's loved ones had written, about how Roberta had gotten a puppy that was chewing up all her fine heels. Then there was Albert, who'd gotten a job in one of those fancy department stores in Manhattan as a shop girl. Albert was like Steve and Davie, delicate enough he could pass as a woman and smart enough to have gotten papers as Alberta Roselawn.

By the time Bucky returned, they'd gotten through the stack of letters, and Davie was laughing, or an approximation of his once bright laughter, now muted and worn, like taffy stretched too thin.

Visiting hours came to an end, and Davie reached out to touch Steve's hand, saying, “T-te-tell-- Tell Oli-Oliver I l-lo-- Tell-tell Oliver I lo-love h-h-h-h--” Tears welled in Davie's bloodshot eyes, one swollen and irritated from the surgery. “H-him,” he finally managed.

“We will,” Bucky reassured. “Just as soon as he's done busting rocks in the can, we'll bring him up to see you. How's that sound?”

“Go-good.” And there's that smile, the smile that made Davie one of the most popular kids in their neighborhood, all teeth and enthusiasm.

Steve was quiet on the ride home. Seeing Davie like that made him nauseous; it also made him afraid. Oliver and Davie had been happy. They'd been _happy_! It wasn't right. And it wasn't fair.

He grabbed the edge of his seat when Bucky swerved off the road in the middle of nowhere, parking the car at the end of some country estate's long, gravel drive. He was breathing heavy. His knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel.

“They shoved a rod through the corner of his eye and into his brain. Said scraping some of the brain material away would cure him from homosexuality.”

“They did what?” Steve shouts.

“Don't make me repeat it. Fuck. I'm gonna be sick.”

Bucky fumbled with his door handle and just made it out of the car before leaning over to hurl.

Steve followed him out. He hurried over to put a hand on Bucky's back like that would stop the rush of horror spreading through both of them. They'd ruined Davie's brain like they thought he was some kind of psychotic. They'd-- He doesn't even want to think it.

“Promise me,” Bucky said, voice rough. “Promise me you'll fucking be careful. If that ever happened to you--” He stood upright suddenly and gripped Steve by both arms. “You promise me, Rogers. Promise me I ain't never gonna have to visit you in that place. Promise me I ain't gonna be wiping drool off your chin 'cause a bunch of pricks got it in their head you're a deviant.”

“You know I can't--”

Bucky shook him. “No. You promise me right now. 'Cause I can't lose you like that.”

“I promise,” he said.

Bucky dragged him into his arms and wrapped him up tight. It was a desperate embrace. One born of fear. And he shook and shook like the only thing holding him together was Steve's arms around him.

“I promise,” repeated Steve.


	6. The Fire Escape Hug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky might be in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the lovely [Princessofthworlds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds) who came up with the prompt.

**June 1934**

The spring of nineteen thirty four was hotter than normal. Temperatures hadn't quite reached their summer highs, but they'd had plenty of rain that year, making the city swelter under a blanket of humidity. It felt like breathing through pea soup.

Staying indoors wasn't an option; it was hotter inside than out, so Steve spent the afternoon on the fire escape with his sketchpad and pencils, the good ones Ma had brought home for him on a whim. They couldn't always afford nice things, but Ma had just gotten a promotion at the hospital to head nurse.

For a while, the only thing he heard was the scratch of his pencil over the paper. Occasionally, voices wafted up from the street below where Colin held court with the rest of his pals. They liked to brag about running with members of the Commission, the governing body of organized crime in New York, and getting into tough scrapes. Steve had learned early on not to pay 'em no mind.

The apartment door opened. Then closed. Moments later, Bucky came into his bedroom and climbed onto the fire escape with him where he sat, legs dangling over the metal's edge. He was quiet. That was the first tell that something was wrong.

“You put the key back under the rock?”

“'Course I did.”

Steve continued his drawing, hoping Bucky would come out with it on his own. Probably woulda had better luck getting one of Mr. Ricci's fighting dogs to turn loose of meat once they'd clamped their jaws around it than getting Bucky to say what was on his mind without prompting.

Eventually, he sighed and placed the pad beside his hip. “Okay, Buck-o. Out with it.”

“Huh?”

“What's eating ya?”

“Bunch of mosquitoes last I checked.”

“Don't be stupid. It ain't mosquito season yet.”

Another awkward silence descended between them.

Finally, Bucky said, “I'm in trouble.”

“What kinda trouble?”

“You know I been going with Gertie lately, right?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Fischer's girl, right?”

“Yeah, her.”

“What about her?”

“She ain't had her thing.”

Steve felt his brows furrow as he attempted to sort out what Bucky was trying to tell him. “What thing you talking 'bout, Buck?”

“You now. Her _thing_.” Color rushed into Buck's cheeks. “You know how girls...” He seemed to rethink his statement. His eyes brightened, and he continued, “You know how Mr. Schultz and Mrs. Schultz ain't allowed to sleep in the same bed when Mrs. Schultz is a niddah?”

“Right! She's having her-- You know.” Heat warmed Steve's cheeks. “'Cause of the family cleanliness laws an' everything.”

“Gertie ain't been unlcean this month,” Bucky finally blurted out.

“Oh.” Beat. “Oh, no. Bucky did you...?”

Groaning, Bucky buried his head in his hands and nodded.

“Without a skin? Oh, Bucky. How could you?”

“It just happened, okay? We was in her dad's car, 'cause I was driving her back from Coney Island, and we stopped off at the automat for some dinner. Next thing I know-- Stevie, when you finally do it, you'll understand. You'll know what it's like to have to stop and think about _that_.”

“You're seventeen! What you gonna do? Quit school? Get a job?”

“Of course! What kinda guy you think I am? I'm gonna marry her and do right by her, 'cause that's what a man's supposed to do when he gets a girl in the family way.”

He couldn't hardly believe they were having this conversation, and some part of him rebelled against it. If Bucky quit school, got married, and had a baby, where would that leave him? Panic, sinister and stifling, surged into his lungs. Next thing he knew, he was wheezing and struggling to draw breath, one hand on his chest, the other gripping the fire escape so tight his knuckles lost color.

“Hey,” Bucky soothed. “Hey, you need to breathe, pal.”

A big, warm hand covered his back and stroked in gentle circles. Bucky's voice, deep now that he'd past puberty and grown into a man, filled his ears. He moved into his best pal's sphere like the moon orbiting the Earth. Because that was what he was. He was a planet, and Bucky was his sun.

Getting his breath back allowed him to calm down. It was hard to be calm when a body felt like it was suffocating for want of oxygen. Shudders raced through him, but he finally took a full breath.

“When you gonna know for sure?”

“Can't rightly say. If she misses her next thing, I'll take her to the doctor and try to find out. Guess it's just a waiting game right now.”

Silence blanketed them again, sounds from the city filtered into their environment. A big delivery truck honked. Kids played ball in the street. A couple of tom cats scrapped in the alley below.

“I'm real scared, Stevie,” he finally admitted.

“I know.”

“I ain't ready to be a dad. Pa and me can barely get enough work to take care of Ma and the girls without adding two more mouths to feed. How am I supposed to support Gertie and a baby?”

Steve ballocksed up, put aside his feelings, and gripped Bucky's shoulder. “You ain't gonna do it alone, okay? No matter what happens, you ain't alone. I'm here, and I ain't going nowhere.”

“Steve, you can't get a job and help me raise a baby.”

“The Hell I can't. That's my niece or nephew you're talking about.”

Bucky got this look on his face that was full of wonder. It was like he was looking at a rainbow. Or maybe one of them wonders they always showcased at the World's Fair.

Next thing Steve knew, he was being hauled into Bucky's arms, and Bucky said, “I don't know what I'd do without you, punk.”

“Lucky for you you're never gonna have to find out, jerk.”

*

Just a couple weeks later, Bucky joined him on the fire escape again. It was less hot. It was less humid. The wind blew across the city, taking all the dank, dirty smells with it. He sat down beside Steve and leaned against the fire escape.

“Hey, Buck.”

“Heya, Stevie.”

Steve's pencil scratched across the paper as lines of washing stretched between the buildings took shape on the page. The center piece was a pair of old Mrs. Goldman's striped bloomers.

“Gertie's having her thing this week.”

Relief sagged Steve's shoulders, and he leaned against Bucky.


	7. The World War Two Hug:  Number 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky get locked in a shed together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Discussion of injuries during war.

_November 3rd, 1943_

Sounds of the collapsing facilities chased them through the dense forest. Most fled on foot. The worst of the wounded rode the tank liberated by Allied prisoners; Steve hadn't stopped long enough to be introduced to everyone. Neither had he let Bucky out of his sight since dragging him off that table.

Finally, it was his turn to take care of Bucky, to return every ounce of friendship and nurturing that had gone on between them when Steve had been sicker than a dog and unable to get out of bed. After a guy had wiped your butt, there was an unspoken agreement that you'd do anything for each other.

They marched long into the night, but he eventually called for a halt so they could take stock of their stolen supplies and triage the patients. It was ugly business, but he hadn't come down from the adrenaline high yet. Seeing men with open wounds and missing limbs barely registered when thirty more steps awaited his attention.

Sergeant Cadwallader introduced himself as Dum Dum Dugan. He was one of Bucky's corporals and knew most of the men who'd escaped during the fighting. He introduced Steve to Major Falsworth of His Majesty's 3rd Independent Parachute Brigade, Private James Morita, Private Gabe Jones, and Jacques Dernier of the French Resistance. They had been instrumental, bragged Dum Dum, in causing a rigging collapse in the Hydra facility that had killed a number of Hydra forces, including a high ranking Hydra colonel who'd beaten Bucky near to death.

Learning he had allies amongst the group went a long way in settling his nerves. Invading a base and saving imprisoned soldiers was one thing. Having them look to him for leadership was something entirely different, so he delegated tasks for the care of their wounded and distribution of supplies, and they set up a makeshift camp so everyone could get a couple hours of rest.

Bucky was pale by the time Steve returned to him, pale and unmoving. For a heartbeat, he feared the worst, but then he saw a sliver of blue and the flutter of Bucky's eyelashes. He crouched.

“You're freezing,” he said, concerned.

“Ain't nothing we haven't been through before, pal,” Bucky assured him.

“Nah, last time we were this cold, we could both fit in the same bed.”

His childhood friend looked at him, then. Really looked, and as he looked, color started riding high on his cheekbones. With a lurch of motion, he slugged Steve square in the jaw.

There was frightening little force behind the blow. Maybe it would have leveled Steve last year, but this wasn't last year. His head barely turned.

“You were supposed to be safe,” hissed Bucky. “That's the only reason I got through that Hellhole is 'cause you was waiting at home staying safe and not having to live this shit show. You even ask 'em what the side effects were?”

“I did.”

“And promptly ignored 'em, right?”

“Pretty much.”

“You got a fucking death wish, pal.”

“No, I just want to do my p--”

“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up before I give you a fat lip. Don't pretend like this ain't got nothing to do with you proving something to people whose opinions don't even matter. Well guess what, pal? Who'd you think would be standing at your graveside if you died from this.” He waved his arm to indicate Steve's body. “Me. That's who.”

“It wasn't like--”

“I ain't through talking. You didn't spare not one second to think about what it woulda done to me if you'd died letting these government assholes experiment on you, did you?”

A denial perched on the tip of Steve's tongue, but he couldn't push the word off because it would be a lie. He didn't want to lie to Bucky. Not Bucky. Anybody but Bucky.

“That's what I thought.”

Bucky started shaking. He hugged himself, and Steve reached for him.

“Dum Dum!” Bucky called his corporal's name while holding a hand out toward him to indicate Dum Dum should help him up. The corporal did, hefting Bucky to his feet and winding an arm around his waist to take some of his weight while they shuffled toward a little oil lantern Bucky's cellmates gathered around for warmth.

Steve could only watch them go.

*

Really, he didn't know why he'd thought becoming the epitome of human condition would suddenly make him good with people. The serum had improved him physically. New body, new strength, new speed, new stamina. Hell, he could get five or six erections a day now that his circulation wasn't shit. The one thing the serum couldn't do was teach him how to apologize.

And Bucky was letting him have it when it came to the silent treatment. Oh sure, Bucky had called for the surrounding soldiers to cheer for Captain America, and that was the tell. That was the sign his best pal wasn't just passingly annoyed with him. Otherwise, he woulda introduced him as Steve Rogers.

So Steve was deep in the shit and didn't know how to get himself out of it. He'd thought about what Bucky had said, how he hadn't even considered Bucky in the decision to take the serum. The thing was, he would have made the same choice even had he thought of Bucky.

He wanted to grab Bucky by the shirt front and scream, “It's my life; if I want to throw it away, I can!” It _was_ his life, and every doctor he'd spoken to agreed that his grasp on it was tenuous at best. Another hard winter, and he might have died without the serum.

They were at a standoff and being incredibly selfish when it came to the whole super soldier serum thing. And Steve was miserable. And Bucky was miserable. And they stayed away from each other at camp while waiting on transport from Italy to London.

Who knew how long it would have continued if not for a pair of enterprising men by the names of Gabe and Dernier. Gabe asked Steve to check on something with him in a supply shed. Dernier asked the same of Bucky. Before they knew what was happening, they were both inside the shed, the door locked from the outside.

Both men huffed their frustration and stubbornly turned toward the opposite wall, facing away from one another. Warmth seeped through Steve's jacket from Bucky and vice versa. Their bodies knew each other better than their brains, as they quickly sagged so their backs touched.

Steve decided to be the big man and asked, “What do you want me to say, Buck?”

“That you're goddamn sorry for letting the government experiment on you.”

“I'm not.”

“Then there ain't no point us being in here together.”

“Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph, I ain't gonna lie to you just to make you feel better. It's my body. It's my life.”

“You were supposed to be safe,” Bucky shouted again. “You got no clue what's been going on over here. You're seeing the war like it's some kind of goddamn picnic--”

“Language, Buck.”

“--full o' red, white, and blue glitter. You got not idea what it's like on the ground, watching your brothers in arms dying right beside you. Wondering why God decided to take the guy on your left and the guy on your right but leave you standing.”

“You know what? Fuck off a fire escape, Barnes. You of all people should know I ain't some fragile bit of ceramics. You know what I've been through, what I've fought through.”

“But you ain't seen a man's face blown off!”

Silence resonated through the shed.

Bucky's voice lowered to a whisper. “I wanted to save you. 'Cause if I could save you from seeing what Hell's like, then maybe you could save me when I got home.”

“Only you wouldn't have come home if I'd sat on the sidelines. Then who woulda been left mourning at the other's grave?”

“Fuck,” spat Bucky as he kicked an empty jerry can.

There wasn't enough light to see Bucky's face, but he could hear the wetness and raggedness of his breathing. He knew the sounds of weeping when he heard it and fumbled through the dark to grab hold of Bucky and pull him into a hug.

Bucky was rigid in his arms but hiccuped as he said, “I wanted to save you.”

“We save each other, remember?”

Once Buck started crying, he couldn't seem to stop.


	8. The Protest Hug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky clash over Steve's recklessness. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Discussion and mild description of an STI. Some violence. Little bit of blood.
> 
> I swear I'm going to write a few happy hugs soon.

December 1940

Angry voices made hearing the person standing next to you difficult for someone with good hearing. Someone like Steve? He could barely hear Bucky let alone make out the words said to him. He felt a hand close around his wrist to pull him back but refused its tug. He slipped through and hurled a stone at one of the police officers. It smacked the pig right in the temple.

“Go home, you bunch 'a--”

He couldn't make out the slur that followed. Didn't need to in order to know slurs were being shouted at them. A whole gang had turned up outside City Hall in protest of the mayor's push to “clean up Brooklyn Heights.” Everyone knew what the mayor meant. They planned on cracking down on all the so-called deviants, gals and fellas who dared step outside the lines of society's norms.

Fuck their norms.

Steve wrestled his way through the crowd, climbed atop a police cruiser, and hoisted the sign someone handed up to him. It depicted Davie. Born December 10, 1921. Died September 21, 1940. An orderly walked into his room to find him hanging from the light fixture by his bed sheet. No one had told them. Not even a letter. Bucky and him had found out when they'd gone to visit on his birthday.

“Justice for Davie!” Steve yelled over the commotion. “Buried in an unmarked grave.”

People around him took up the chant.

They weren't the only ones at the protest. Nor were the police. Christian groups came to stand between law enforcers and protesters, escalating the situation with their warnings of damnation. As if any of them really cared a smidgeon about anyone else's damnation.

Someone, could have been a priest or a bully for all he knew, grabbed his ankles and tried to yank him from the police car. Losing his balance, he flailed before smacking cheek first against the light atop the cop car. It rattled his head and loosened a couple teeth while he kicked and screamed and clawed to keep from being dragged down.

Then Bucky fought his way to the forefront. Put his fist right up under the jaw of the man who'd grabbed Steve, snapping his head back hard. The fella went down like a sack of flour, allowing Steve to climb back to his feet.

He spat a mouthful of blood and hoisted his sign back up. “Justice for Davie! Buried in an unmarked grave!” People took up the chant again.

*

The whole borough crackled with tension that evening. Police with dogs and riot gear had broken up the protest after sunset, sending protestors scrambling in all directions. Shit, even fire fighters had turned up, using their hoses to push protesters back from City Hall.

So a tentative peace had been crammed down unwilling jaws, and most citizens waited in hushed silence for more violence to break out, like they thought if they breathed someone would throw another punch. Probably, that someone would be Steve.

He rubbed his abused cheek, walked up the three flights to their cold water flat, and keyed inside.

“You weren't down there getting in trouble, were you, Steve Rogers?” old Mrs. Cohen asked.

“Lying's a sin, ma'am, so I can't rightly put your mind at ease, Mrs. Cohen, without being a liar.”

“Oh, Stevie. We had such high hopes Mr. Barnes would keep you outta trouble.”

“He's half my trouble, ma'am.”

Mrs. Cohen snickered and waved both men inside their apartment.

As soon as the door closed, Steve found himself shoved against the nearest wall. “I swear to fucking Christ you're gonna put me in the goddamn ground, Steve Rogers.”

“This again? Bucky, come on. We agreed to go to that protest. We _agreed_ ,” he emphasized.

“I didn't tell you to throw a rock at that cop or tell no priest he's a child molester who's gonna be sitting on Satan's cock in the hereafter.”

“Father Bishop is a child molester.”

Bucky groaned. He groaned and allowed his head to thump against Steve's chest. “Fine. Just do whatever, then.” Bucky went to pull away.

Fear spiked inside Steve, the kind of fear that made him nauseous, the kind he'd felt when he'd seen the nuns standing outside his flat come to tell him God had taken Ma up to Heaven. He grabbed Bucky's hand to prevent him from turning away.

“You can't protect me by making me be someone I'm not,” he pleaded.

Silence settled between them.

Intensity hovered around the outskirts of Bucky's expression, a coming storm with ominous clouds crowding out the sun. For a second, Steve thought Bucky might kiss him. A thrill played his vertebrae like a xylophone. Their glances connected.

The kiss never came. Rather, Bucky pulled him into a hug, one hand on his back, the other messing Steve's hair. “Let's get some ice on that jaw, yeah? I swear to Christ. God gave you thick bones to make up for your weak as shit lungs.”

It left him feeling disappointed, both the hug and the fussing with his hair. For the first time, he felt like he wanted more. Really wanted more. But knew he could never get it. And in the absence of Bucky's love, there weren't enough fellas out there that could fill up Stevie's heart. Or his ass. 

*

So when he came down with something the next spring, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. He developed a rash, could hardly force himself out of bed he was so tired, kept getting debilitating headaches, and lost an alarming amount of weight. Despite the amount of calories Bucky tried to pack into him throughout the day.

He tried to be fine, though. Got up. Went to work. The work he turned out was sub-par, but none of his clients ever complained. Only one client dropped him, and that was because said client's cousin's little sister's mother had seen him at the protest that day.

The new illness led to some knock down drag out fights in their household, too. Bucky threatened to take him to the hospital. Steve argued it wasn't life threatening because he hadn't developed a cough and could still, technically, go to work.

Secretly, though, he was scared right down to his bones. Gerald, a guy Steve had hooked up with over the winter had come down with syphilis early that spring. Or maybe he'd had it a long time. Docs always stressed the disease came in stages, and the sufferer could go through periods of normal health before things took a turn for the worst. 

Anyhow, Gerald wound up dead a couple weeks after being admitted to the hospital, so maybe Steve was so reluctant to go because his symptoms were what they were. Bucky and him were thick as thieves, but there came a point when you had to kick your best guy out for being a no good, shameless... It wasn't his fault Gerald hadn't told him.

Things settled into a fragile peace around their house as long as Steve was up and about. If a headache hit, and he took to his bed, the peace swung wildly out of control. But the storm was bound to break.

It broke while he was changing in his room. (They were some of the lucky ones who could afford a two bedroom considering they both had steady employment.) That old creak two footsteps inside his doorway registered, and he jerked up and around to find Bucky standing there, face growing red. No way had he not seen the nasty blisters around Steve's hole.

“Who gave it to you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah, it matters. I'm gonna tear his fucking balls off.”

“He's already dead.”

“Shit, Stevie.” Bucky's bottom lip wobbled. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You gotta go to the hospital. You just gotta go.”

“They'll just put me in the sweat box or expose me to malaria. Try to get a fever going so it'll burn it outta me. Then maybe give me some quinine and arsenic.”

“Whatever it takes.”

“I'm scared, Buck.”

Bucky covered the ground separating them in three steps and pulled him into his strong arms. No hesitation. No fear he would catch the disease just by touching Steve. Just acceptance and support.


End file.
